


Pity the Opera Ghost

by Sherwhotreksings



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A little angst?, Drama, F/F, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), Romance, crowley aka phantom of the opera, it's a silly time here, ok there's angst and pining and stuff but it's not heavily emphasized
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 00:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherwhotreksings/pseuds/Sherwhotreksings
Summary: "Crowley’s heart squeezes just a little bit in an all too familiar way. She struggles to push the feeling down as she settles back into her chair. One of Crowley’s favorite things about Aziraphale is how she is so considerate. It’s not a trait angels generally have, and it’s definitely not a trait demons have. Aziraphale’s ability to be so kind is so human and- She stops herself short. It is not admirable for a demon to be kind nor praise an angel for doing so. "Crowley and Aziraphale find themselves together again in Paris, but for very different reasons.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Pity the Opera Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shoebox_addict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoebox_addict/gifts).



> Hi! I promise I'm finishing this. I was planning on having it be long and then I got "the worst case of tonsillitis [my doctor has] ever seen," for most of December, so I'm still writing it. Thanks to everyone on the fic swap discord for being so nice and supportive!!

The Paris air is chilly, but it’s a nice change from the damp, stale air that Crowley has been breathing. She pulls her shawl just a bit closer around her body in an attempt to insulate herself from the falling snow. She could’ve taken a carriage, should’ve with how it’s snowing now, but she has an excess of energy from today’s activities that she wants to work out. She’s been at the Palais Garnier, the opera house, all day doing well… what Crowley does best. 

The walk to the tavern isn’t terrible, though. She’s fast enough that it takes only five minutes to walk several streets down instead of the normal eight or nine, even though the cold makes her feel sluggish and tired. Stomping into the tavern, she shakes the snow off her boots and shawl. She can feel the snowflakes on her eyelashes and eyebrows turn to small beads of water at the sudden change in temperature. She plops herself somewhat inelegantly down at a table next to the fireplace in order to warm her reptilian blood. The snow is blowing harder now, she can see it starting to accumulate on the windowsill.

“It’s a cold one this evening, wouldn’t you say?” A familiar feminine voice asks. 

Crowley tries to contain an eye roll and smirk as she turns towards a table a few rows away from her own. Of course _she’d_ be here as well, also as a she. She can’t go anywhere without bumping into her. 

Aziraphale sits at the table, white blonde hair curled and piled atop her head, tan spring skirts pooling at her feet despite the current season. Her jacket is folded and thrown over the back of the chair next to her in a very unladylike, but very Aziraphale fashion. She has a menu in front of her face, so Crowley can’t tell if she’s seen her and is specifically making a jab at her snakiness or is just making polite conversation with a fellow stranger. Either way, that _bastard_. 

She catches her eye over the top of the menu and Aziraphale does something that, in the future, will be classified as a double take. 

“Crowley?” she laughs, “Is that you?” Her laugh is as full and round and high as always.

It makes her feel a little high herself.

She remembers the first time she heard Aziraphale laugh, in 41 AD. They’d gone to get oysters. Nasty little things. Crowley had taken one bite (which is apparently the wrong way to do it) and gagged so hard that he almost fell out of his chair. Aziraphale was so shocked that he sat there for a few seconds, mouth agape, before finally letting out a loud guffaw. Naturally it turned into a fit of laughter while Crowley sat there and grumbled about the texture.

She swallows thickly, coming back to the current time. She leans back in her chair slightly and puffs out her chest. “The one and only. What are you doing here Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blushes a deep rose color, stuttering out a few syllables before finally pulling herself together and whispering loudly, “I’ve been assigned the job of stopping one Georges Boulanger from becoming a dictator. I’ve been here a week already and still haven’t figured out how to get an audience with him. I figured I’d try the… ahem… female form.” She avoids eye contact with Crowley for a few seconds before snapping back. “Don’t tell me you’re the one inciting this whole coup business?” 

“Me? Nah. I’m just here for a little fun. I’ve been running around the Palais Garnier stirring up trouble-”

“What?” Aziraphale interrupts, “Don’t tell me you’re the opera house phantom?!” Aziraphale slams the menu down on the table in shock. Her outburst draws the attention of the two tables between them.

Crowley throws out a hand. “Shh! Shh! I’ve been working on this for years. I’ll be damned- blessed?- if you screw this up for me.” 

Leaning towards Crowley, Aziraphale starts, “I think I would’ve noticed if you’d been in Paris for yea-”

“Not all at once, Aziraphale,” she cuts her off with another shushing motion. “I pop over every once in a while, play a few pranks, tempt a few souls, and leave.” 

“But why?” Aziraphale clasps his hands together, putting them down on top of the menu.

“It’s all leading up to my big plan.” She can’t help but let a little bubble of pride pop on her face. Heaven and hell might have their own plans, but that doesn’t mean Crowley can’t have one of her own. 

She’s hated opera ever since she went to see _Rinaldo_ by Handel in 1711. Crowley shudders a little bit. She doesn’t like thinking about _the incident_. (The incident refers to Crowley seeing three grown men on stage singing high notes meant for womens’ voices. Notes so high they might’ve shattered glass if it was possible. Notes only achieved by grown men because they had a certain bit of their anatomy removed. Castrati indeed. It was distinctly unsettling and creepy, and she had to leave after the third song.)

“Ehem.” A waiter is staring directly at the pair. “Will you be dining together today?” He looks annoyed at the prospect of having them taking up an extra table and annoying all the customers by speaking loud enough to be heard at this distance. 

Crowley glances to Aziraphale, eyebrow raised. Aziraphale gives a small smile, head tilted. 

“Yes. I’m warming up,” Crowley excuses herself flatly. 

“It is snowing quite hard outside.” Aziraphale gets up and crosses to Crowley’s table. Allowing her to stay in her warm spot. 

Crowley’s heart squeezes just a little bit in an all too familiar way. She struggles to push the feeling down as she settles back into her chair. One of Crowley’s favorite things about Aziraphale is how she is so considerate. It’s not a trait angels generally have, and it’s definitely not a trait demons have. Aziraphale’s ability to be so kind is so human and- She stops herself short. It is not admirable for a demon to be kind nor praise an angel for doing so. 

They talk all through their meal, dessert, and then three cups of coffee, long past what’s decent in a public space. Crowley pushes her chair back, sprawling just a little out of it. The waiter stares at them, the sole customers left in the restaurant long past closing, from across the room.

“It seems we’ve rather stayed too late. Should we go back for a nightcap?” Aziraphale pushes her chair back as well.

Crowley hides a smile at the familiar ending to nights spent together. “We’ll have to go to yours. I’m afraid mine is a bit dark… and damp… and loud. The opera really echoes off the lake under the Palais.”

“Oh, Crowley, You’re staying _under_ the opera house? Whatever for?” Aziraphale follows Crowley to the door. 

“Mischief doesn’t sleep, angel.” She waves her hand in the general direction of the waiter, standing in front of the window, like something that might have been similar to a goodbye. Throwing the door open she says, “Oh look, the snow stopped. Almost like a miracle.” 

Aziraphale glances around Crowley’s body to the outside and then to the window behind the waiter. “I didn’t do that!” she whispers in Crowley’s ear. 

She just shrugs in response.

She didn’t stop the snow because Aziraphale is wearing only a thin jacket and dress set meant for late spring, in December. She stopped the snow because she didn’t want to deal with it again. The first time was such a pain. It’s definitely not because she doesn’t want Aziraphale to be chilled. Whether angels can actually get cold or not is a separate issue and beside the point. 

They walk in silence to the small flat Aziraphale is renting just around the corner. Crowley watches Aziraphale’s hair bounce as she walks, a few curls blow loose from her bun and dangle gently by her neck. They’re lovely curls, perfectly formed, and probably created through a minor miracle. Crowley thinks to her own red curls. She hadn’t thought to use her powers to style her hair, mostly because hell would berate her if they found out (“Look Ligur, Crowley cares about his appearance. Isn’t that cute?” “At least as a girl his prissiness blends in.”) but also because she enjoys styling it. There’s something about the way it feels to unroll her hair from their fabric ties and pin them up haphazardly. She reaches out to tuck Aziraphale’s curls back into their place, but freezes before actually touching them and lowers her hand back down. It’s too personal a move, and anyway a few loose curls are the fashion right now, not that Aziraphale would care. 

They make it into Aziraphale’s flat without issue and Crowley immediately crosses the parlour to the large sofa, hikes up her skirts, and flops down onto it. They’re two full bottles into the night by the time Crowley works up the nerve to question Aziraphale about Boulanger.

“So, how do you think you’ll stop Boulanger from becoming a dictator? There are whispers he’s thinking about forming a coup with the working class. Messy things, revolutions.” She tosses an arm over the back of the sofa, watching Aziraphale out of the corner of her eye. 

Aziraphale tugs on the silk scarf around her neck, face paling slightly. She takes a breath and then states bluntly, “I’ve decided to try and seduce him.”

“Whngk?” Crowley almost drops her wine glass in shock. Aziraphale sleeping with someone? _Aziraphale seducing someone?_ It seems impossible, and yet Crowley knows Aziraphale is a sexual being. In fact she’s accidentally witnessed Aziraphale at an orgy once in Rome. He was just observing, but still. That same unidentifiable feeling Crowley has only experienced around Aziraphale surfaces once again. 

Aziraphale sleeping with and seducing someone that’s not Crowley. 

This thought hits her so hard she recoils and she’s sure Aziraphale noticed. A silence falls on the pair. Aziraphale is staring into her wine glass, gently swirling it in her hand. Crowley stands and paces the length of the room before turning around and coming to a stop in front of Aziraphale. 

“Why would you want to do this?” It’s the only thing Crowley can manage to get out. The unspoken, “and not with me,” hangs in the air between them, thick and dripping with venom. 

Aziraphale speaks to her wine glass, “It’s what the job requires.” 

“It’s too dangerous. You can’t.” 

Both of them know that’s not true, know that she’ll be safer as his mistress. 

Crowley isn’t sure when she got so close to Aziraphale’s face, or when Aziraphale stood up in the first place, but she’s close enough to feel her breath on her cheek. She could just… 

Crowley turns on her heels and leaves in a flurry of shawl, jacket, and skirts, calling “I’ve got to go Aziraphale.”

She can faintly hear Aziraphale call after her, “Crowley!” but it’s too late. 


End file.
